"Are you listening to me!? At all?! God, do you ever listen to me?!"

"No! I don't listen to you because you never tell me the truth! You never tell me what to do!"

He hadn't wanted to come back here, but here he was. Scriabin said that it was really his choice, that he had wanted to come here and talk about something, but Edgar doubted it. This was the last place on Earth he wanted to be.

This was the last argument he wanted to be having.

He just wanted to get some sleep, was that so hard to ask? But no. Back in the white space with the presence that never left his mind.

He was angrier then perhaps he should have been, but tension had been building. Not even precisely between him and Scriabin, but just tension at everything in general. Edgar felt on edge, went to sleep to try and get some rest, and woke up here again. Woke up to another in-depth debate about things he didn't want to talk about, and faced with something he didn't want to see.

Edgar normally would have tried to get his own space, would have closed himself off and away, but at the moment he felt like getting close. He noticed that he had backed off when he attacked him before. Maybe this would make him realize that he was NOT in the mood for this.

He didn't even remember what they had started arguing about. Scriabin had just been poking him, as usual, and Edgar's patience snapped. He had shouted for him to shut up, and Scriabin of course did not comply. This only made Edgar angrier, and as his rage did little to stop Scriabin's taunting, he found himself getting more and more furious at the fact that his last resort against Scriabin proved to be useless.

Face to face, just yelling at one another. He was pretty sure that it'd escalate to screaming in short order.

"I don't lie to you, Edgar, Jesus Christ! Why would I?! What benefit could I have from lying to you!"

"I don't know!" It was hard to think when he was this angry. "I don't know what you want from me! You've never given me anything, you've never told me what you wanted! What your motivation is, and you expect me to trust you!"

"Look at you! Look at what you're doing!" Anger matched, but this time neither were backing down. He couldn't see Scriabin's eyes, but he could easily see the rage on his face. His hair was longer, although it was still as well-kept as before. He still looked handsome in ways that Edgar hated.

"Look at YOU! Look at yourself! You're still making yourself look better then you actually are! Look at what you did with your hair! With your face! You're caught up with appearances!" That wasn't even related to their argument, but Edgar couldn't remember what they were arguing about initially anyway. Scriabin took the bait at any rate.

"Me? ME?" Scriabin flung out an arm and his coat flared behind him. He had lost his common sarcastic tone. A similarity between the two when faced with open hostility. "You made me, Edgar! You gave me this body! You gave me this face! Are you going to yell at me for trying to make it my own? God, how can you be this way! You're the most selfish person I've ever met!"

"I'm not selfish! I've never been selfish!" Edgar raised up his hands which he found were balled into fists. "Everything you've ever said-"

"EVERYTHING I've ever said to you was for your benefit!" Scriabin matched his motion. "You're just so blind, you're so god#$^# blind! You don't want to see what I've done for you! You don't want to see what I'm doing! You don't want to accept why you made me! What I'm here for!"

Why isn't this WORKING why won't he STOP TALKING

"God, shut up!" Edgar reached out for Scriabin's neck for those few enraged seconds. "I hate you! I hate you more then I've ever hated anything in my entire life!"

"You're a liar, Edgar!" Scriabin caught his hands before they could reach him, tightened his grip painfully across the joints in his hand. He hissed at him. "You've always lied to me!"

"I hate you!" Edgar tried to pull his hands away.

"Well then, #$%^!" The obscenity was screamed, torn from a protesting throat. "I hate you too!"

He released his hands, and Edgar tried again to reach for Scriabin's throat. His fingers touched, curled around flesh the same warmth as his own, felt a heartbeat.

Scriabin's hands took tight hold of his face. Before Edgar could exert any pressure, Scriabin pulled his face close and kissed him.

"Mmph!"

There was no love in the contact. Scriabin pressed hard and at the noise Edgar made, immediately pushed his tongue into his mouth. Edgar was too shocked to really do much of anything at that point, much less continue his plan to strangle Scriabin somehow. His fingers loosened and he could still feel a heartbeat.

What the $#$%-?!

Scriabin withdrew slightly, then bit Edgar's lip hard. The sharp sting immediately indicated that the skin was broken, and Edgar jerked away in response. The anger that had faded momentarily in exchange for confusion returned, this time with a different focus.

"Ah, you f-!"

I can't believe you-!

It didn't take too much effort for Edgar to move his hands from Scriabin's neck to take hold of his hair. His fingers twisted and he felt the resistance as strands cut into his skin. He heard Scriabin's muffled cry of pain as he dragged him back close again, kissed him, waged an attack of his own. He wasn't going to let him get away with that-

To his satisfaction, Scriabin seemed just as surprised as Edgar had been. He tried to get away from him, but Edgar held on tight. Mimicked him, the contact and motion.

But when it came down to it, he didn't bite him back.

"I knew it." Scriabin panted roughly when they broke apart again, Edgar with Scriabin's hair still twisted tightly around his fingers. "I knew you wouldn't. Passive-aggressive bull#$%^."

"Do you want me to?" Edgar tried to mimic the mocking tone that Scriabin often took with him. Scriabin just smirked in response.

"You won't do it."

He knew about reverse psychology, but the expression on his face was so maddening. He pulled hard to one side, heard Scriabin again give off a slight pained noise. Scriabin glared at him, breathing hard.

"You don't think so?" Edgar tightened his grip, pulled again so Scriabin's head was forced to one side.

He winced, spoke through clenched teeth. Yet still he somehow smiled at him in that same condescending way.

"No. I don't think you will."

"Arrogant-" Edgar cut himself off, pulled Scriabin close again. Scriabin laughed slightly then he couldn't really speak. Again, fighting for dominance. While Edgar kept his painful hold on Scriabin's hair, Scriabin dug his fingers into Edgar's side with particular strength.

Still fighting. He noticed Scriabin's tongue lingering on the fresh cut on his lip. Before Edgar could find an opportunity to return the injury, Scriabin pulled away from him again, despite the hold on his hair. He could feel some strands pulled free, hear him take in that sharp breath.

"Come on." Scriabin said with a somewhat feral grin. "Do your worst. Go ahead. You can't beat me."

Edgar tugged sharply and Scriabin fell to one side with a noise he probably didn't intend to give voice.

"Aaah-!"

"Shut up!"

"Make me!" Scriabin panted. "Make me, you #$%^$!"

The fingers that had been latched into Edgar's side still held onto the fabric. He pulled and Edgar came along with him. He stumbled for a few seconds, attempted to pull Scriabin back by the hold he had, but Scriabin pulled harder, and he pulled first. Edgar ended up falling right on top of him.

"Come on." Scriabin still managed to sound confident, even in his current position. "Come on, try it. Go ahead. Try."

"I hate you." Edgar hissed.

"I know," Scriabin said in a sickeningly sweet tone.

"I hate you!"

He shifted his hand, maybe to try and strike Scriabin in the face, it wouldn't have surprised him. As he moved, he felt Scriabin move as well. The hand that held onto his shirt felt around a little, quickly found the edge.

He couldn't use what little leverage he had in his current position with his hair, so instead he noticed that Scriabin's thigh was beneath his knee. A quick shift and pinned, pressing hard into thick muscle. Scriabin took a sharp breath and then with some amount of viciousness, dug his nails into Edgar's nipple.

"Aa-!"

His leg slipped off of Scriabin, he lost his balance and fell closer. He grimaced in pain, the horrible sensation on his chest the only thing he could focus on.

"You won't do it." Scriabin growled from underneath him. "You won't do it."

"Stop-!"

And he let go.

Sensation gradually flooded back, made Edgar stop for breath and to try and control himself.

"You won't let yourself do it."

"Shut up...shut up, god I-"

"You made me. You selfish prick, you made me. Take some responsibility."

"I didn't make you."

"Liar." Scriabin's fingers returned and although Edgar flinched initially, he found that it didn't seem that his intent was to harm. "You made me this way."

"I didn't make you-"

"I'm everything you've ever wanted, Edgar." His touch was now feather-light, teasing in a way that was remarkably distracting. It was hard to remember who was doing this to him. "Haven't you noticed?"

"You're everything I hate-"

"I'm everything you want to be." Scriabin pushed against his shoulder, shifted him. It only took a few seconds of distraction and positions were reversed. "I'm everything you ever wanted."

"You're a liar-"

"Your face is red."

"Stop it, stop touching me-" Edgar tried to move his arms, push him away. He pushed against his shoulders but only succeeded in dislodging his coat. Scriabin didn't even seem to notice.

"This is how you want to be touched."

"No it isn't-"

"And I know it is, because I am you, Edgar. I know what you want, I know what you dream about, what you dream for." His voice was breathy and soft. "I know who you dream about."

"Stop..." Scriabin's tone had changed so completely. It was hard for Edgar to be angry in the face of it. Again resorting to confusion, and that certainly wouldn't help him now.

Scriabin was softly kissing him, light touches down his cheek. Edgar could feel his face burning, tried to remember who was doing this.

"Stop it, stop it, get away from me..."

"Oh come now, Edgar. I can understand your objections about Nny, or about my insinuations about your relationship." He shifted his weight, trapped Edgar's legs. "I can understand it all. But this is just you. This is just yourself, in a way. I know you aren't opposed to the idea, because you indulge during your morning shower. This is no different."

"You're not me...get off me..."

"You shouldn't have any reservations." His tone seemed strangely familiar. "Who will ever know?"

"I hate you..."

"That may be true." Scriabin kissed down his neck, and his chin scratched in a way that made Edgar shudder. "It probably is, actually."

"Stop it, stop it-, why are you doing this to me, I hate you-" He was used to sarcasm, bitterness, condescending superiority. He was not used to this, he didn't know how to react.

"Yes, I gathered that much. Does it really matter?"

"Yes, stop...s-stop..."

"This is your world, Edgar, remember? Make me stop. Unless you prefer me this way. It's so much nicer when we aren't yelling, isn't it? It's much better when you're listening." His hand drifted along Edgar's side, nails lightly scratching at his skin. He could feel shiver of goosebumps rising.

"Unh..."

"It's much better when you're doing what I want." Scriabin breathed across his skin.

"Unh, no...no I'm not." A reminder, something familiar to focus on. "If that's what this is about, then I-I don't want to..."

"My foolish boy, what else did you think this was about?" Scriabin smiled and he was so close, Edgar could feel it.

"Stop..."

"I know exactly what you want, Edgar." His hand slowly traced along his hip, beneath fabric. "I know exactly what you want done to you."

"No..."

"I know exactly what you want me to say. Who you want me to be. I know." Edgar gasped and arched his back at the first touch. "You can't hide it from me."

Edgar let out a shuddering breath. "Nnh..."

Soft touches, quick and light. "You're listening now, aren't you?"

He had his eyes closed, trying to block him out. Trying not to focus on his words.

"You want me now, don't you?"

Edgar gasped again, leaned into a touch that left a little too soon. Enough to want more.

"Don't you?"

Edgar raised his arms to try and push Scriabin away, but it was token resistance.

"I know exactly what you want." Scriabin smiled again. He bit lightly at a certain spot at Edgar's neck and it tingled through his body. He shivered, turned his head away.

"Always had a thing for control." A soft whisper. Scriabin touched his face lightly, ran his fingers below his eyes. Edgar couldn't feel anything. His scars? "Always have..."

He could feel something scratchy against his wrists. He leaned his head back to look, caught sight of something red, before Scriabin distracted him again. Biting him, not exactly lightly, but not hard enough to damage. It was a tingling pain that faded and then rose again, not even exactly in time with what Scriabin was doing.

"Ah..."

"It's easier this way, isn't it?" Scriabin said softly. "It's easier to give control to something physical, tangible. That way there's proof there's nothing you could do. It's easier then just refusing."

"I..." It must have been yarn that was tying his wrists together. He was sure of it. Drew his arms above his head, left his chest exposed. "I, uh..."

"You can pretend it wasn't your idea, that all the power you give me here is yours. You can pretend. It's all a fantasy now."

"Not real..."

"Yes, that's right." Scriabin sat up, straddled his chest. He looked down at him. "I'm your fantasy."

"That's...nnh..." Edgar wanted to protest, but Scriabin shifted his weight in a way that caused a shudder to cut off his words.

"Go ahead." Scriabin pulled off his shirt with a quick motion, his hair fluffed by the static. And of course, his body matched his face- "Tell me. Say you want me."

"I..." Edgar wanted to protest, wanted to argue. But everytime he did, Scriabin moved just enough to remind him of what he, at current, wanted more then anything.

"You want me, don't you?" His voice drifted, and it almost sounded as if he was speaking to himself. "You want me to do this with you."

Edgar made another noise.

"I'm sorry, that's not how it works for you, is it?" There was that familiar sarcasm. "It's never with you, it's always to you."

He tried to move his hands, remembered where they were. At the thought he felt face get hot once again. He closed his eyes and soon felt Scriabin's fingers against his skin.

"Isn't it?"

Couldn't respond. Didn't want to respond.

"Say you want this." Scriabin pulled at Edgar's clothes. "Say you want me."

He wasn't sure why he wanted to resist. He knew this ran deeper then he was aware. He wasn't even sure if what he was doing could be considered resistance at the time. "I-I...I don't..."

"Say my name."

He couldn't open his eyes. He shivered in response, felt skin that matched his own press against him.

"Nh..."

"Say it." He ran his hand along the inside of Edgar's thigh.

"I...I hate you..."

"Close, but not good enough." That smile. His fingers touched, but didn't come close enough. Lingered outside, teased. "You're a terrible liar."

Edgar moaned.

"It'll never get better then this." Scriabin kept talking, even as his fingers continued deeper into him. "It'll never get better then with me, because I know exactly what you want. I can do everything. I can be the best sexual partner you've ever had. I am the best sexual partner you will ever have."

Shouldn't this hurt?

"Nngh..."

"You know it, Edgar. You know this. Say it."

He let out a breath and shivered. "Sc..."

"Yes, almost." Smirking again. Edgar opened his eyes and Scriabin was so close. "A little further."

He twitched his fingers and Edgar moved along with him. Tried to keep contact, but he wouldn't let him. Teasing. Figures.

"Admit it."

"I..."

Couldn't do this, couldn't let this happen, couldn't let him win...that's what this was about...

"I-I hate you..."

"I see." Scriabin didn't sound irritated in any way, although he stopped what he was doing. "I see how it is with you. Like I mentioned before, I know what you want."

Pulled away from Edgar, sat back. He stared at his fingers, which were clean. "Fantasies are wonderfully convenient, don't you think? There's no pain unless you want pain, no mess unless you want mess. Nothing you don't want. Isn't that interesting?"

Edgar knew what Scriabin wanted him to say and instead stayed silent. He was trying not to focus on the aching frustration that he wished he didn't have. He could focus it on something nameless, he could wish for his own hand and his own relief, but he hated, couldn't bear the thought of wanting him...

"I know what you want. But more importantly, Edgar, I know who you want." Scriabin got off of him and sat back completely, let his arms rest on his knees. "I can still hear your thoughts, even in your dreams. I know what your dreams are, after all, and this is a dream. It's odd how a sentient presence can change things, can't it? I know what you want, Edgar. I know who you want."

Edgar struggled to sit up from his current vantage point and without the aid of his hands. It was a bit more difficult and less graceful then he would have liked, but he sat up eventually. Stared at Scriabin, or rather, his reflection in those glasses.

"I know who you wish I was." Scriabin sounded tired. He shook his head, returned the familiar sarcasm to his voice. "I know who you wish was doing this to you."

Burning frustration that found an easy and familiar target.

"The #$^# you do."

Scriabin stared at him for a few seconds, then smiled slowly. "It's so satisfying to see you angry, my boy. It gives me that warm feeling in my soul to know that I can inspire some emotion into that lifeless husk, no matter how ridiculous the underlying source."

"Shut up." Sexual frustration easily translated. He pulled at the yarn that tied his wrists together. "You talk too much."

"Oh?" Scriabin smiled wider. "What are you going to do about it? What are you going to do if I said those dreaded words, that you wish Nny was here-"

"Shut up!"

And he pulled his hands free. The yarn fell from his wrists with a ripping sound and he leaned forward. Felt something like a snarl on his lips.

"This is so exciting." Scriabin smirked but didn't move. "I fear for my life. Yeah, that's right, Edgar. You wish I was him, don't you? Like those dreams you have every night that you conveniently erase by day, you wish I was him. You wish I-"

"You don't know anything!" Legs shifted, enough leverage, and he prepared himself. "You don't know anything about me!"

"Hmm?" Scriabin looked away from him with a genuine puzzled expression and found his arms pulled behind his back. "What's this?"

Edgar blinked himself.

"Oh, this is cute." Scriabin twisted his back. His wrists were tied tightly together with the same red yarn that showed up so often in the back of Edgar's memories. "You think this changes anything? It looks like you've figured out how to control some of this area for once. Do you think this controls me? Do you think I couldn't break free of this if I tried? You have no power over me, Edgar."

"You-"

"I'm tired of games, Edgar." Scriabin sighed. "I'm tired of doing this with you. I'm tired of going over the same argument over and over and over again. I know you are. I don't see why you have to fight here, of all places. I don't know why you have to fight with yourself in a place where no one can see, no one will know. Why do you do this to yourself? There's no one in the world who will punish you, at least, not until you die."

Edgar sat back for a few seconds, stared at him. Watched as Scriabin tugged at the yarn that held his wrists back.

"Is it..." Scriabin smiled again. "I think it is, from the snips I can catch rushing through your mind. Are you afraid that I will punish you for admitting what you want? This is a dream Edgar, only a dream. I've never interrupted them before, and I wouldn't hurt you for them now."

"You're a liar, you've always hurt me for-"

"No no no, I'm afraid we've got a bad case of crossed wires here." Scriabin looked at him and slowly his form changed. "No, I've hurt you before, Edgar, because you never wanted to admit what you wanted. I've hurt you because you hide from the truth, because you lie to yourself, because you hurt yourself. I hurt you because I am your truth, and you hurt me back."

Johnny sat in front of him now. The same dark eyes, hollow cheeks, but a definite lack of the predatory spark.

The perfect imitation of his voice.

"I trust you, you know."

"Nnh..." Frustration and confusion, but this was a dream. It was a dream after all, it was a dream. Still felt that need, and there could be no consequences for this, could there?

"Is it easier for you this way?" Johnny leaned back for a few seconds, his arms pinned behind his back. Shirtless, just as Scriabin had been. He could see his ribs... "It's only a dream, and you know it."

How could he imitate that voice so well? Edgar moved forward and Johnny watched him carefully. It was a suspicion that Edgar knew well.

"It's only a dream...there's nothing wrong with that, is there? There's nothing wrong with what one wants in dreams...there's nothing wrong with wanting me." Edgar touched Johnny's face gently, watched him lean into his touch. "You do want me, don't you?"

Like a play, like a script. Sincerity, but not reality.

"Don't you, Edgar?" That soft tone for his voice. Edgar brushed the hair from Johnny's eyes, stared at him. No fear.

"I..."

"I want you," Johnny said softly. "I love you, if you would ever take the time to ask. If you listened, you'd know. You'd know that I have for a long time, and I always will, no matter what you do. Everything I've done, I've done for you...I love you, I really do."

Lines he'd heard many times, many times repeated through quick wishful thoughts and forgotten dreams.

"Please..." Johnny leaned into Edgar's touch again and sighed. "Just say it once...you want me, don't you? Someone has to want me..."

Instinctual concern and a definite physical reaction to the touch of his skin. "I do...I do want you..." Just a dream, just a dream. A mantra that he had repeated before. Nothing to fear if it's just a dream.

Johnny sighed deeply at his words, closed his eyes. "I knew it..."

Edgar leaned in close, inches away from Johnny's lips. Whispered words from a script long memorized. "You're all I can think about...the only person in the world who matters to me, I do...I love you too..."

Johnny made an incoherent happy noise, and they exchanged a very soft kiss. At the contact he felt his body shiver. An almost imperceptible shift, and they were in Edgar's bedroom, against his sheets. Johnny's hands were free, and they reached up and touched his face softly.

"I've been waiting for you to say that..."

Just a moment of doubt, of memory of the white space, and then it was gone as motion took precedence. Another kiss, longer and Edgar noticed the cut on his lip was gone. He didn't feel that stinging as Johnny's tongue ran across the previously wounded area.

Their bodies arched together as Edgar made his first move, pushed deep inside. No pain, and Johnny gave a strange but pleased moan. His thin body shuddered underneath his fingers, grew warm beneath his touch.

"I knew it..."

Edgar wanted to keep the motion smooth at first, set up a rhythm. But Johnny made that difficult, as he moved quickly against Edgar, pulled at his shoulders with short gasping cries.

"You love me..."

Skin pressing against his shoulders, tightening around him, pressure building inside. He closed his eyes for a second, thought of who was beneath him.

"I always knew you did."

Voice...

Opened his eyes and back to the original form. Forgotten so quickly in the heat of passion. Something the two of them shared...

Scriabin rested his hands lightly on Edgar's shoulders, had his head to one side with his eyes closed, his long hair stuck to his forehead.

A moment of recognition, of what had happened, of what he had been coerced into doing, but not enough.

"Scriabin..."

"Unh...oh $%#$..." He saw him wince. "Wasn't sure if I could keep it up that long...#^#$..."

Anger he was trying to hold on to, anger instead of the more obvious feeling that was motivating him. "This is what you wanted..."

"Nnh, if you say...if you say..." Scriabin panted, caught his breath long enough. "If you say this is...I just wanted to trick you, then..."

Pushed hard and deep, watched him arch and cry out in a way that he knew sounded too similar. He didn't fight back, still kept his hands on Edgar's shoulders and his eyes closed.

Even without his glasses, he still couldn't see his eyes.

"Nnh, come on..." Scriabin smiled slightly. "Not stopping now, are you?"

"Liar..."

"That's right...back to this again. Should have expected that I guess." His glasses were back, and Scriabin looked up at him. He took a few deep breaths, tried to sound more confident. "Depends on your definition."

Thrust in hard, hard enough to push Scriabin against the backboard with a thud. Scriabin grunted in pain, or at least that's what he thought.

"Ha, $^#^," he hissed. "Fine then, come on."

"This is what you wanted..." Edgar felt a tinge of anger come into his voice.

"Holy $%&#, Edgar!" Scriabin laughed in a strange desperate way. "What does it matter now?"

"All this time, everything you've done...lied to me, you've always lied to me!" Edgar took hold of Scriabin's wrists. "Why didn't you tell me?"

A pause filled with harsh breathing.

His expression filled with hate. "Because you wouldn't believe me."

"And you had the audacity, the sheer audacity to lecture me on how badly I handle my relationships-"

"For God's sake Edgar, shut up and finish #$^#ing me! I'd be more then willing to continue this discussion later, but just shut up and finish!"

Anger finding a more permanent hold, and Scriabin hit the backboard again. A trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth, and Scriabin gently touched it with his fingers.

He stared at the dark smear across his skin, smiled slowly. "Huh, look at that..."

"I can't believe you..."

It was for the relief, nothing else. If anything, he could watch Scriabin hit the backboard each time, that pained grunt. His reactions to what he was doing. Control. He had a point. The last thing he ever thought he'd see would be Scriabin panting beneath him, making soft sounds to punctuate each thrust.

"Shut up..." Scriabin managed to smile, although his voice shook. He shuddered, body clenching in a way that forced Edgar to muffle his own appreciative sounds.

He could feel the rise and gradual loss of control, his body switching into auto-pilot to reach the peak he was sure was coming. Closed his eyes, thought of nothing else. Could not think too hard about this, not now. Scriabin's voice rose and fell, clawed at his neck, and at that point the stray thought occurred to Edgar that if they were connected, as connected as Scriabin had always claimed they were, did that mean he was approaching the same...

Thoughts quickly blotted out. With that final release he felt Scriabin's nails claw through his skin completely, heard him give a cry that sounded more like he was in intense pain then anything else.

"Are you..." Words that came without thought, without regulation. Scriabin's hands fell from around his neck, rested against the sheet. Both breathing hard. It took him a few moments to muster a response.

"I...haa, I know what you were going to say..." He smiled again, shifted his position and pulled away from Edgar just slightly with shaking limbs. "I knew it from the beginning..."

"It's nothing..." Edgar watched him. "That's not a normal sound to make..."

"Of course...of course that's what it is. Back to this again. It takes so much to get you to be honest. Can you imagine..." Scriabin laughed, brushed away hair from his face. "Can you imagine, the most honest you can be, when nothing else interferes, guides, or controls you...is that instinctual rush, that loss of control approaching orgasm? Maybe that's why...maybe that's why you're so uptight about sex..." Scriabin was rambling. His voice changed pitch at weird times.

"Scriabin, why...why did you do this? Why did you want me to..."

"I could give you several reasons, though I'm not sure which will appeal most to you..." Scriabin still looked attractive in a dissheveled way, his hair falling across his face just so with a remnant of a blush on his cheeks. "I know you won't believe me..."

Edgar waited, watched as Scriabin laughed softly to himself.

"It could have been the most superficial reason, what you'd immediately default to...that this was to prove that you loved Nny, whatever...you know. I don't have to explain much further, we've gone over this several hundred times. It could have been the most convenient for you, that I just did this to hurt you 'cause I get a kick out of seeing you in pain, embarassed...could be the slightly tricky version, that I care about you like I've mentioned before, and that's why I always try to protect you, though you can't always see that. Could be the stupidest reason, another I think you may default to, that I just have fallen so desperately in love with you and everything about you, and need your magic semen to make me whole, and that's the end of that, and now I'll vanish. Wouldn't that be perfect?"

"Which one...?"

"What?"

"Which one is the truth?"

"Oh, Edgar." Scriabin shrugged. "I don't care. It's up to you. Which one sounds most plausible to you? Maybe you just wanted to finally control ME for once, instead of just folding like a house of cards whenever I raise my voice at you. Maybe you wanted to teach me a lesson, wanted to show me that you could be dominant for once. Or maybe I don't even have to be involved, maybe you just wanted to be dominant for once in your life. Just once, ever since."

Memories.

"Yarn..."

"Yes." Scriabin held out his hands, watched as yarn began raveling through his fingers, twisting around his wrists. "I know."

"What other reasons are there?"

"Can't come up with any on your own?" Scriabin watched the yarn wind around his fingers. "That's boring. I can't do all the work all the time. Think of something, Edgar. Can't always let people press their ideas into the mold of your mind."

"You hurt..."

Scriabin looked up at him for a second, smiled. "Of course I do, Edgar. You made me, I'm a part of you. I do feel your pain, and I've felt your pain, all of it, through your life. Maybe I've always been there, maybe I haven't. Of course I can feel pain, of course I hurt just as much as you do at times."

"And then...you have nothing then." Edgar held out his hands, and the yarn curled around his thumb, a brief connection between the two. Scriabin didn't move as the yarn began to work, traveling across Edgar's skin, between fingers, between hands. "I hurt...and I turn to you sometimes...or to Nny, or to God, or to someone...you have no one."

"I have your memories." Red yarn. "I have your thoughts. I have your dreams."

"How many...how many times, Scriabin...how many times in my dreams have you taken my place...?"

"Depends." Their hands tied together. "Depends on what dreams we're talking about. Nightmares, I often take your place. I try to keep those away from you, when I can. I try to push you to the sidelines. It's much easier for you in those dreams to hide in the closet, watch as I get butchered by your dear psychopath, then it is to be murdered yourself. After all, you do hate me." Scriabin's voice was soft.

"But that's..."

"I see, you meant in good dreams. Didn't think I protected you from your own mind, did you? I didn't have to before. You didn't have the fuel for really good nightmares, nothing truly horrific. Didn't have the source, and certainly didn't have the piping that's pumping your subconscious with hate currently. Yes, I hurt, Edgar. Sometimes, I hurt for you."

"And then my dreams...the dreams that you said I forget when I wake up..."

"Hard to be honest, isn't it?" Scriabin tugged his hand, watched as Edgar's moved along with him. "It's hard to be honest with this here, isn't it? I think I was there long ago, but that was before I was really aware. I think I protected you from nightmares about her. I do that now, certainly. I protect you from the nightmares about those times, I take your place when she calls you down to knit. I sit with the yarn in my hands and I listen to her lecture, control. Hard to be honest."

"I remember..." Edgar stared at the yarn around his hand, could almost hear his grandmother's voice again. "I remember those times..."

"But let's not think about that. I may be able to pick at you for Johnny, for your bad decisions that led to Johnny and your current relationship to Johnny, but I can't fault you for your past. It's my past as well, and nothing can be changed now."

"Scriabin..." Edgar stared at him, tried to see past his reflection. "You've never...I've never heard you talk like this before."

"Funny how sex will loosen some people up, isn't it?" Scriabin smirked at him. "You asked about your good dreams, and yes, I readily take my place in those. I won't deny that. I enjoy what you enjoy, and I don't have many other options in here. I don't have many options with how to deal with stress or with how I feel, apart from yelling at you which, this may come as a surprise to you, doesn't always make me feel better. There's a pipeline of sewage in your head now, my boy, and it takes a lot to keep that under control, to keep that from affecting you. I have to take my breaks now and then, and who's to blame me if I take someone's place in one of your sexual fantasies?"

"But still...why? Why are you doing this all for me, exactly?"

Scriabin moved his hands, tugged Edgar's along, then twisted his fingers around. Edgar remembered this game from his childhood...cat's cradle. His grandmother had taught it to him before she asked him to hold the yarn while she was knitting...

The yarn transferred from Edgar's hands to Scriabin's.

"I'm you, my dear boy. I've told you that. I'm concerned about you, because this is my home. This is my world, and technically, that would make you my parent in a way that's vaguely disturbing to me."

"But then why? Why are you always attacking me? I'm sure...I'm sure you were trying to do something recently, trying to...I lost time once, I lost five minutes or ten. I'm sure of it, I'm sure that was you. You...you possessed me or something."

Scriabin tilted his head, seemed to be thinking to himself. He held out his hands to Edgar, waited for him to take the cat's cradle one more step. "#$^#, why not. Yeah, I did. Does it surprise you?"

Edgar reached out, pinched the two strips of yarn, turned his hands and the cradle shifted owners. "Why?"

"Wouldn't you want to get out? Wouldn't you want to get out of here? You're immensely frustrating to deal with, Edgar. You've felt my frustration. And I know I'm no easier for you. Hate me, hate you, we heard it all before. It's easy to pretend that this can wipe that all away, this moment of civil discussion can wipe away all that hostility, but it doesn't and it won't. I hate what you do, Edgar, I hate what you're becoming, I hate what you're doing, and I hate the justifications you make for your shoddy behavior. I want out."

"Is that it?" Edgar held out his hands. "Is that what you want, or does this run deeper then that? Do you want out because then you could get what you really want? You've played parts in my fantasies, but I never knew...you wanted this. You wanted me to have sex with you, and here. Did you want out because that way you could fulfill that fantasy of your own?"

"Of course I have fantasies." Edgar hadn't asked that question. Scriabin took the cradle back. "Do you think I find you that sexually appealing?"

"You wanted me to #$^$ you pretty badly back then." Edgar was amazed at the lack of hostility on both their parts concerning their current discussion. Perhaps the sex really had done more then they were aware of. Edgar didn't feel tired as he usually did, but he did feel strangely calm.

"I would ask you, but I already know. You find me sexually attractive." Scriabin smiled. "I didn't completely make this form, you know. I suppose that makes me a Narcissist. Or both of us. I don't know. The lines get blurry."

"Sex with myself..."

"Essentially." Scriabin adjusted the yarn around his fingers, made the necessary connections more clear. "I told you before."

"Do you care about me?"

"Didn't I already answer this question?"

"Well...did you want to have sex with me out of love?"

"Ha. You're so naive. Sex has nothing to do with love." Scriabin held out his hands.

"Then why?"

"Does it matter to you? Will it change anything? If I told you, would you let it go? Would you listen to me, get rid of Johnny, would you come back here voluntarily, actually care about me in return? Would you ask about me when I stopped talking? Would you do what I wanted? Or rather, would you do what I wanted to me? I doubt it. I know you wouldn't, and you know you won't either." Edgar reached out hesitantly. "We've lied so much to each other, you've lied so much to everyone else, let's just stop for now. You won't. You don't. That's all that matters."

Yarn back on Edgar's fingers. "Do you think...the reason we're talking like this is this?" He held his hands up. "Do you think it's this?"

"Could be." Scriabin shrugged. "After all, whenever you were with her, you controlled your emotions to a level that can't be matched today. A great deal of control whenever yarn was on your skin, whether to hold up the skein as she knit or while she explained the rules of the game we're playing now. Could be why I don't feel the motivation myself."

"It's probably a bad thing." Edgar thought back to emotions that had run so high before. "You told me it was."

"I did." Scriabin pinched the yarn, twisted it around itself. "Back when I was trying to get you away from Johnny."

"Are you jealous?"

"Ha." Scriabin shook his head. "A silly question. I'm jealous of anyone who has a physical body, my boy. I'm jealous of the freedom he has, that you have, that you squander so thoughtlessly on relationships so focused on control."

"You want to be real..."

"Doesn't everyone? Don't you? Real to someone, isn't it? Even if it's just to your god...real to someone."

Wait a minute, this isn't porn. I KNEW IT I knew the minute I stopped focusing they'd start rambling and sex would not happen. This is just like that first snippet where Nny and Edgar started rambling about stuff. Well, this is educational if nothing else. There's a potential for more porn here, but I'll let them talk a bit more. I'm hungry.

First time he had actually talked to Scriabin about...Scriabin. Edgar watched as the yarn moved back to Scriabin's hands.

"Aren't you real to me?"

"Depends on your definition." Scriabin tilted his head, sighed slightly. "It's been a gradual acceptance on your part. I didn't want to be this way, you know. I guess you could compare it to being born. I didn't want to leave the womb of your mind, as bizarre as that sounds now that I think about it, because I knew there was nothing for me here. I knew I could never exist physically, as you do. And I knew even at that point, that arguing with you would just be a frustration for the both of us. It would be a hard life for me, if you could call it that, and I didn't want to be forced into that. But you gave me my name, and gradually forced me to accept this. Accept my gradual reality, accept my personality and individuality. You've fought it yourself at times, but now I don't think it's as difficult. Refused to think of me as a person, listen to how I felt, how I responded. Sighs lost and unrecorded. As time went on, you gradually became more attuned to me, but I hardly feel real to you."

"Why? Where did you come from?"

"I came from you, my boy. I've said it before, and that's one thing that will not change. I came from you, and I am you. Just something gave me that spark, gave me the motivation to become what I am now."

"Nny..."

"Yes, Nny," Scriabin said bitterly. He held his hands out to Edgar. "I suppose I can blame him for my existence as well." A pause, then Scriabin started laughing. "I guess that makes you both my parents."

"That's a weird thought." Edgar couldn't help but smile in response as he took the yarn back. They were trapped within three stages of the game now, looping, but it didn't matter. Something to do with the hands, Edgar always had to have something to do with his hands, or else she'd...

"I know you don't want me here." Scriabin sighed and wiped one eye. "I don't want to be here either. Doesn't make it any easier though. This is still my home, so I have to take care of it. However, I'm just a visitor to you, a parasite, so no care is shown to me. Understandable that I'd retreat to your fantasies, isn't it? Ha, it's easier to psychoanalyze myself then I thought. I guess it's all the practice."

Edgar sighed.

"If I was in pain, Edgar, what would you do? If I told you I felt like I was being torn apart, like all this pressure was too much, and I needed some relief, what would you do? Would you come here again? I don't think so. You understand my general irritated mood."

"I don't know." Edgar stared at the yarn between his fingers. "This isn't something I've thought about."

"Considering your life currently revolves around a homicidal maniac, that's understandable. There are more important things that you should be concerned about recently."

Stared at red.

"It's interesting. Intimacy is one of those things you're so very bad at. Something you're often afraid of, actually, and here we are. I would hazard to say that the moment we're sharing here is rather intimate. Afraid?"

"Not really."

"Would you argue with me?"

"About the intimacy part?"

He nodded.

"Not really."

"It's ironic in a sick way." Scriabin smiled again. "That the two of us, we share a history. We share a body. We share so many things between us, we're more alike then either of us would care to admit. We have our history, and yet, you've created this rift between us, because my purpose didn't coincide with your illusion."

"It's always my fault, isn't it?" Sigh.

"If you had listened to me, I doubt you'd be where you are now."

"What makes you think I don't want to be here?"

"Gah, we're shifting back to him again." Scriabin snorted. "I'm tired of talking about him. We were making so much progress, just you and I. Let's leave him as a nebulous construct that influences our conversation, but doesn't directly apply, isn't an object."

"I never thought you'd get tired of talking about him." Edgar smirked. "It's all you seem to do."

"That's all you want to hear." Scriabin hissed and Edgar turned to look at him, surprised by the anger in his tone. "Isn't it? You'd rather remove me so far from yourself that I'm nothing but an objection, an argument you can't resolve just like before, rather then accept me as my own person. God, you were just talking about that before, as if you wanted me to be real, and already you've proven yourself false. This is why I don't trust you."

"I didn't mean to offend." Edgar thought back, remembered when he and Scriabin got into these kind of debates before. Less one-sided, more participation on both parts. He wasn't afraid to talk back to him, wasn't afraid that Scriabin could attack him, rip him apart like he had before. "You read too much into things."

"And when you do it, you pretend it never happened, so I just get the residue. Funny how that works, isn't it?" Scriabin's voice dripped sarcasm, then he sighed. "I'm a glorified janitor of a decaying heap of garbage, in constant danger of eviction, but with nowhere else to go. If you weren't such an amazing idiot at times, perhaps this would be more tolerable. If only you hadn't recieved your frontal lobotomy, hadn't become that toy I compared you too, hadn't let him do this to you, if only you hadn't let Nny do this to you, then maybe this wouldn't have gotten as bad as it has. Maybe we could still talk civilly, like we used to. Maybe I wouldn't be viewed as some intruder, something to be avoided and cured like some cancer. If only you had listened to me."

"Hatred..."

"Yes, hatred." Scriabin lowered his voice. "Hard to deny, isn't it? I'm going to have a bruise on this leg. You're going to get away with perhaps some vague soreness when you wake up."

"That's not true." Edgar rolled his eyes. "I'm surprised at your behavior...you often condemn me for playing the martyr. This is your world and your home, and you've shown that you have some measure of control here. You can shift forms, if you like, so why couldn't you heal your own damage? Makes no sense."

"I could justify it. I could tell you that this body that you see, it's my default form. You've alienated me so much from the rest of your consciousness, really and truly identified me as the enemy, as that invading cancerous thing, and while I can manipulate the fabric of your mind for a while, hide this form in shadows, when it ends I am still who I was to begin with. I can't dissipate into the nothingness in here, I can't become some formless entity. It's as much your fault as mine, as I've grown as fond of this body as you have." He smiled. "You like having me this way, having me be something concrete, having a mental picture of me. And in particular, you like the thought of damaging this image, of somehow affecting me in a physical way, as we so rarely interact in such a fashion. When it comes down to it, Edgar, how much power do you think I have? If you focused all your energy into envisioning me with this bruised leg, do you think I could fight that off?"

"I'm not sure. Can you?"

"We'll find out, won't we?"

"You've exerted control over me before...I know it. During those arguments we had, those black-outs...I know it. You've taken control of my body, you've done it. You have more power then you're letting on."

A pause, and Scriabin smiled again, wider this time. "You're more astute then I gave you credit for. I'm glad you're learning to doubt, learning to think on your own without my prompting. Again, it's a justification. It's a skill I learned from you. How to justify my behavior and my beliefs. The justification can be as thin as paper or as thick as the restraining walls of your religion, but in the end, I can still construct it. And I will, as long as I have the ability, just as you will in return."

"So it wasn't true then." Edgar held out his hands. "Lying to me."

"Yes, lying to you again." Scriabin shrugged. "I would rephrase it to testing you, but that would add a level of meta to this I don't feel comfortable exploring at the time."

"What do you want from me?"

"Something I can never have, just as you want from Nny. There are some interesting parallels to be drawn, if you would care to look." He adjusted his glasses, brushed his fingers across his unblemished cheek. "Desire and the urge to justify that desire, reduce the cognitive dissonance. I can never have what I want, and therefore, I have no need to express that desire. It can only lead to more pain on my end, and I deal with enough of that on a daily basis as it is. I would claim that this is not the most healthy way to handle things and I would be right, but I learned from you, my boy. Your defenses are mine. I'm just in a position where it's easy to see their failings, and it's easy for me to point them out to you. My defenses won't end up in our collective death either, so you can see why I would be so adamant about you and Nny."

"Desire...you want me to care about you, don't you?"

"Care about me..."

"Yes...that's what this is all about...you want me to care about you."

"It'd make things easier, maybe." Scriabin pulled at one of the loops, but Edgar relaxed his fingers, and the yarn construction fell apart. "Hey..."

Hands had to do something, after all. Edgar reached out and took hold of Scriabin's face.

"Is that it?" The game was gone, and emotions began to build again. "Is that what you think? Do you think that you can just erase all of this, erase everything, make everything better by suffering poor Scriabin some of your healing love and light? Please. Turn me into what you want, at least that way be honest."

He always did talk too much. Then again, in his position, that was all he really could do. Actions, actions were more valuable.

Edgar leaned forward, pressed his lips against Scriabin's, and he didn't try to move away. There was a moment of silence, of skin against skin and warmth, and then he heard something like a choked sob.

"#$#^ you, you hypocrite..." Scriabin's voice shook and he turned his face away.

Edgar turned his face back towards him, felt heat beneath his fingers, and again Scriabin did little to move away. He brushed his lips against his again, softly, and heard his breath catch.

A few seconds and Scriabin's hands tangled in his hair, pressed against the back of his head and he was caught deep. He heard Scriabin give something like a whine against him, felt him shaking, and Edgar cautiously opened his mouth. Scriabin took the invitation quickly, his tongue immediately seeking Edgar's out without hesitation. Another noise and he felt the vibration, could feel him shivering violently.

It was pure desperation, and Edgar knew it.

He let his hands drift, felt the wet trails down Scriabin's face, felt something spatter against the back of his hand as he moved across Scriabin's chest. Soft touches, his hands curled around his back, and he leaned against him, close to him.

Edgar rubbed Scriabin's back, waiting. He could feel the heat off his face, and finally Scriabin broke free with a shudder. He took a few deep breaths, leaned his head against Edgar's shoulder so he couldn't see his expression.

"#$^# you..." His voice was soft and tight.

Edgar could feel the muscles tightening in Scriabin's back and thought quickly. Planning to run away, planning to do something, but...

"How could-..." Either speak or do nothing, but not this time. If they were as connected as Scriabin claimed, if they were that close, then it would only make sense. He kissed Scriabin's neck softly, heard him give a strangled pained noise.

He tried to speak again, say something, but more soft touches down that sensitive area stopped him in his tracks. He bit that particular spot they both knew, and Scriabin's entire body tensed. He hissed, his breath shook.

"Say..." Scriabin managed to get out a few more words before Edgar could stop him. "Say you want me...please..."

"Talk too much..." Edgar mumbled. He used his leverage to gently angle Scriabin's body down. "You always talk too much..."

It was easy. He knew what to touch, what to do, just as Scriabin had said before. Scriabin held onto him, clung onto his back and his shoulders and his neck, held him close with frightening tenacity. He took shallow gasping breaths, whimpered more then once at touches that Edgar knew were pleasurable.

Several times tried to say something, tried to speak, but a finger against his lips or a mouth against his own quickly silenced him.

Ran his hands along his body, along contours that he knew so well and skin that felt too familiar. Shivering beneath him. Could hear him breathing hard, breathing fast.

He moved away, to shift positions and get ready, but Scriabin grabbed at him when he moved, nails sliding across sweaty skin.

"Don't you-"

"Shh."

"Don't you..."

Scriabin moved along with Edgar's hands, followed his directions. A position now familiar, and he could see light glinting off of Scriabin's skin beneath his glasses, dried trails.

A smooth push, dream novocaine, and this time Scriabin couldn't hide it as well as before. A broken sob, immediately followed with, "$^#$! $%^#...$#$^..."

Edgar looked at him for a few seconds and

This won't last this won't last it's a lie it's a lie he's always lying to me

Not his thoughts.

Not his thoughts.

"Don't bother." Scriabin found his voice and he tried to move, tried to pull away from him, get away. "Don't bother, if this is-, get away from me, I don't need you, I've never needed you..."

He grabbed Scriabin's hands as they pushed against his sheets, slid against fabric. He held them still, felt momentary tugs and the shaking of resistance, but it was quickly gone.

"I've never needed you!" Scriabin shouted at him and his voice cracked. "You've always needed me! If I had a choice, if I had a choice-"

A very slow and smooth motion, gentle and skin pressed against skin, pushed deep and Scriabin found the rest of his intended words dissolved into meaningless syllables. Edgar felt him attempt to raise his hands against him, or so he would assume. Resistance too weak.

He opened his mouth again to speak, and was again silenced by the same smooth motion. It was a message, one without words, that the time for talking was over. Scriabin let out a loud gasp, turned his face away from Edgar and shut his eyes.

He let go of his hands slowly, and Scriabin didn't try to get away this time.

His only defense, one honed over countless days and weeks and months, the only weapon he had, his only method at all of defending himself and his viewpoint and trying to get across whatever message it was, all of it. Every single thing about him depended on his words. Without them, Scriabin could do little. As long as Edgar kept him quiet, in one way or another, it was easy to pretend that this was as simple as it seemed. Without Scriabin's words to add depth, to add meaning where there may or may not have been any, this could be very simple.

Simplicity was not something that Scriabin was familiar with.

He gasped loudly, tried again to say something, but Edgar pressed a finger to his mouth. He kept moving, kept trying to form words, and he resorted to pressing his hand over Scriabin's mouth completely.

Control, control, control. He felt his breath hissing over his hand, a kind of muffled moan when Edgar moved again, moved deep and his other hand added to the sensation.

Scriabin made a strangled kind of noise when Edgar touched him, something that probably would have formed into some kind of words had his mouth not been covered. His hands curled around Edgar's neck, thin fingers resting against skin radiating warmth.

He shouldn't have resorted to it, shouldn't have done it, but he had to say it. He had to say it, it burned its way through his mouth. "You're just like me...aren't you?"

His reflection in his glasses, harsh breathing.

"Control..." Edgar stared down at Scriabin and felt his voice change, heard something like concern or compassion but he wasn't sure why. "You're just as fascinated by control as I am..."

Scriabin struggled at that point, tried to shake his head free, push Edgar away. He made an incoherent, angry sound through Edgar's hand.

Although, if he talked and Scriabin just listened...

It wasn't hard to subdue him. He wasn't really trying.

"You want this...you do, you want this..."

Muffled sounds that he was sure involved an obscenity or two.

"You just can't say it...just like..." Edgar closed his eyes. "Just like I can't with-"

Scriabin dug his fingernails into Edgar's neck with enough force to cause Edgar to jerk back, move his hand and cry out.

Edgar grabbed Scriabin's wrist and pulled it away from him, noticed the dots of red flecking his fingertips.

"Don't you bring him into this!" Scriabin shouted. Edgar pushed his hand down against the mattress, felt the other against his back. "This has nothing to do with him-!"

A little bit of empathy can go a long way.

"You can be very transparent. I guess I've never looked at you the right way before."

Moved his hand, caught Scriabin before he could scratch at him again, and then he was pinned underneath him.

"You don't know anything about me." Scriabin's mouth was twisted in a snarl, and then he very slowly began to smile. "You don't know-"

He knew what he was resorting to, that familiar defense of attacking, shifting focus, of withdrawing behind a barrage of insults. Pinned, it was the best defense Scriabin could think of, maybe the only one.

That meant he was right.

A quick thrust and Scriabin arched his back, just like Edgar knew he would. He tried to pull his hands free, tried to find his tongue while gasping for air. Another, deeper, and this time, Scriabin almost sounded as if he was in pain.

"There, there it is again..." Edgar managed to say between short breaths. He was struggling to keep his body under his control, as it wanted to continue what he was currently doing without any further delay. "That's not physical pain, is it...?"

"#$^# you- aaah-!" Bitterness quickly replaced with another breathy gasp.

"It isn't."

"Shut up!"

"You're just like me..." Edgar bowed his head, pressed himself forward and felt his body push against him, working with him. Hard to process information with so much physical stimulation. He felt something in him reacting, something that felt a deep and personal fear that made him hope that wasn't because of what he was physically engaged in. He said it and each time it sounded a little bit more real, a bit deeper. "You're just like me, you won't admit it-"

"I'm not like you!" His voice was pure frustration, crackling at the edges and he was sure that a great deal of fury was directed at helpless tears. "I'm better than you! I'm everything y-"

"Denial..." A mirror he had hated so long and so actively. Distorted maybe, but still essentially his reflection, still essentially him, everything was his...

Scriabin put in real effort this time, twisted his body to try and get away. Edgar would not let him go. "I'm not-"

"I shouldn't have done this to you..." A rising sick sensation, things buried and forgotten long ago. Looking through the past with a new lens, and with it came tremendous guilt. Consequences, suddenly there were consequences, and they were right here beneath him. His actions, his words, they manifested in front of him, and he never connected, never thought, never cared enough...

"You're sorry now!?" He could feel his body shaking under him. "You just realized now!? You stupid $^#$! You- god I HATE YOU-"

Edgar knew how to move, how to linger at times, and how he would have liked this. He knew and he worked with a new goal in mind. Another smooth push into him, angled just slightly.

Again Scriabin arched his back, much against his will, exposed his throat with half-started sounds. Another attempt to speak, and this time Edgar didn't try to slow himself down. He let his body continue, let it move without his input. Scriabin trembled underneath his hands, words quickly changing and reforming midway, voice cracking and weak.

Trying to speak, but not now. Later but not now. He felt something burning, remembered his shoulder and now that he thought about it, could feel the blood welling up. Quicker motions and he knew, he could feel Scriabin moving with him, working just as hard for the same end.

I can do this for you... Soft thoughts as he tried to match Scriabin's movements, changed rhythm and force to match what he desired. I can do this for you, if nothing else.

A pitiful cry as Scriabin's fingers curled, his mouth open as he twisted his body beneath him.

Could see, around the edge of the lenses, Scriabin's eyes shut tight.

He never wanted to see him as a person, consider how he felt. He never wanted to do that, not from the beginning and even now, the idea still made him uncomfortable. Perhaps he just wasn't particularly good at empathy, which was entirely possible, but he had to guess, had to figure out.

There was so much pain, so much internal pain, and Edgar knew why. He knew it was his fault, not for any trivial physical reason, but because he had been so ambivalent, he had hated and hated and hated for so long and created it, fed it, built it from his own thoughts and hated and nothing else. He couldn't resolve that, couldn't resolve his internal hatred of Scriabin and knew that the feeling could not be reciprocated. He still represented everything that Edgar couldn't stand, and he realized now that he was the same for him. That he stood for everything Scriabin hated, and yet...

Scriabin was right in some ways. He was what he wanted.

Not in every way, there was no way to be right in every way, but he was right.

And he wanted him back, and the dichotomy, the inconsistancies in both their behavior...from the hated oppressor to now, working for pleasure...

He couldn't trust him. Scriabin had every right to think he was lying, to think that he was doing this just to hurt him, to think that he was doing this out of an obligation, no emotional attachment. Just as he would think of Scriabin were their places reversed. He couldn't trust him, and he wanted to. But he couldn't, not now. Too many lies, too many god$%#$ lies. About everything...

He hated Scriabin because of what he could do to him...because he knew the truth...

The sensation was pleasurable in itself, but the real rush came when he knew climax was near. He could feel it, just along the edges, a faint warmth and the physical encouragement to keep doing exactly what he was doing.

Edgar had tried to keep quiet through the experience, or at least most of the way through. Scriabin had no such qualms. After all, his voice was his power. They must have felt it, the sense that they were just approaching it.

Scriabin probably intended to say something, but it just came out as a shuddering groan, encouraging without intelligible syllables. Edgar needed no encouragement at this point. Sensing orgasm was near was enough to wrest control of his body away from him. It would be difficult to say at that point whether or not Edgar could have stopped thrusting into Scriabin at that point if he wanted to, or whether Scriabin could have stopped matching the action, pushing against him with just as much enthusiasm.

Nothing mattered at that point, nothing mattered except keeping up that rhythm, that push and pull and touch, that made that sense of warmth grow and spread. Quickly moved from his stomach throughout his body, to his hands and to his face and after the warmth came the prickling sensation, the hairs rising on his body.

Edgar lowered his head, Scriabin threw his back. Edgar opened his mouth, breathed hard, vocal chords resonated but not with volume or intensity, just to give his gasps more body. Scriabin cried out, longly and loudly, although it wasn't a word either of them knew, if it could have been considered a word.

The intensity of it, blocked out every thought for those few seconds except the feeling, remembering the feeling, enjoying it, until the final spasm, the muscles that stopped firing too soon, the clenching released and that was it. Over too soon, always over too soon.

Edgar let out a long low breath, and Scriabin panted beneath him, still making soft sounds.

"Are...?"

"#$%^." His voice was small and weak. "Nnn, I hate you..." Scriabin shuddered underneath him and drew in a sudden breath. He made a frustrated noise, struggled to control his breathing and make it even again.

"You hate what I do to you..."

Scriabin didn't turn to look at him. He kept his eyes closed, his face turned away.

"I hate what you do..."

He let his wrists go, and Scriabin didn't move. Edgar slowly shifted, moved away. Scriabin still didn't move, even when given the space to do so.

He didn't say anything. He wasn't sure of what to say.

"I hate..." Scriabin sniffled, tried to harden his voice. "I hate the fact this doesn't mean anything to you."

"What makes you say that?" Edited his voice, his reponses, just as with Johnny. That didn't occur to him until after he said it.

"What the-...what do you think?" Scriabin glared at him. "Not the act, the act itself is meaningless. Nothing will change because of this. You're going to deny this ever happened, you're going to deny everything-"

"And what are you going to do?"

Scriabin wasn't prepared to have the question turned back on him. He paused for a moment, drew his hands close and took hold of his shoulders. He shivered.

"Does it matter?" He tried to sound mean. "Does it matter? It won't make a difference."

Dodging the question. He could recognize it now. "What are you going to do? What will you do, if I do pretend this never happened?"

Edgar sat back and watched him. Scriabin still glared at him.

No response. He just shivered.

"You know what you'll do?" Edgar said softly. Scriabin narrowed his eyes, attempted a smirk to mask the rage.

"No, what will I do?" Didn't hide the anger in his voice.

"You'll pretend not to care."

A moment, and Scriabin sat up, brushed off his arms.

"Well, don't that work out perfect for us then." Scriabin's voice shook. "Isn't that marvelous."

"So you do care, then."

"What do you think?" He brushed some hair away from his face with a quick flick. "What do you think, Edgar? After all this, after all of it, what do you think? Do you even think about me as more then just a construct, an enemy?"

"I might do that now."

"Oh that's real encouraging." Scriabin clenched his fists. "Yeah, that's really wonderful. I'm so proud of you. It might happen, wow. I'm impressed."

"You're not as complicated as you think you are..."

"And neither are you, by the way."

"You're not as impenetrable as you think you are either."

"Wow, neither are you. This sure is new ground we're breaking here, isn't it?"

"That's not the point, Scriabin. I can't believe I didn't notice it before...I was just so worried about defending myself, my point of view...I didn't notice, I didn't notice how you handled criticism yourself, how you handle pain...I just didn't notice-"

"And isn't that a shame, because you never learned how to fight back. Is that it? Is that what this new revelation is for you? That you have a new weapon, a new way to get me to shut up when I get on your nerves? You can defend yourself, is that what this is about? That's what this is, that's what this all is to you. It's a learning experience for you, not for me."

"I do care about you."

"You're a horrible liar."

Silence, Scriabin shaking furiously.

Edgar ran a hand through his hair. "How can I prove it to you?"

Scriabin stared at him, then smiled. His voice was hollow.

"You know what, Edgar? You can't."